Crying in the rain.

I am the ghostly figure who stands on the edge of the dug out,
Beaten to pulp by the rain,
Faintly exposed by lightning and shaken by the roars of the thunder-strikes.
I am the one that is firmly hugged by the clothes that were once oversize.
With these roars humbling my screams and the storm hiding my fears,
I am the one crying in the rain.

I am the one who owns houses but not a home,
the one who leads a mob yet all so lone
Who else has this much belief in that which is dead?
Who else lays their pillows beneath the bed?
Mine is the face everyone thinks they saw flashes of smiles,
Because I am the one crying in the rain.

I am the one misjudged by nature,
For in my pain, all they see is bliss,
In my hate, love
and in my solitude, companionship.
How did my insecurities get so well concealed,
That they see me as a hero
When I am the one crying in the rain?